Bank Job

by Robert L. Fish

  “Relax, eh?” Reardon said. “I may fool him.”

  “He said ‘relax’ not ‘collapse,’” Jan said demurely.

  Reardon started to smile and then became serious. “This Wheaton case bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t like policemen being killed,” Jan said, looking him in the eye. “It strikes too close to home.”

  “They never shoot lieutenants; we’re protected by our desks,” Reardon said with an attempt at humor that fell flat. He saw the flush on Jan’s face and was sorry for the crack. He came to his feet and came to put his arms around her. “Look, Jan—are you beginning to change your mind about marrying a cop?”

  “Dinner’s ready,” Jan said, staring into the pot. “Set the table.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I answered it.”

  There were several moments of silence, then Reardon sighed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and went to unfold the card table.

  Friday—4:00 A.M.

  Patrol Car Four of the Burlingame Police, down the Peninsula from San Francisco on the west coast of the bay, on routine patrol, passed the small road leading to the Windsor Pier, went on for a hundred feet or so, and then suddenly braked. Patrolman Gunther, young and chubby, sitting in the right-hand seat thinking of his equally young and chubby bride alone in bed at home, sat up and looked at the driver in surprise. Patrolman Osterman at the wheel, older and stringier, who had been thinking of retirement after a career unmarked by advancement, had put the future from his mind and was twisted in his seat, looking back through the car’s rear window as he backed up.

  “What did you see?” Gunther asked curiously.

  “Light’s out at the Windsor Pier gatehouse,” Osterman said succinctly.

  “Old Halversen’s probably taking himself a nap,” Gunther said, and grinned. “Light was probably getting in his eyes.”

  “Only take a minute to check,” Osterman said, and swung the wheel.

  The headlights of the patrol car, raised for better illumination, picked out the potholes and ruts in the bumpy dirt road leading from the main road to the old pier and the water’s edge. In the faint glow from the San Francisco International Airport across an arm of the bay, the shadow of the hulking freighter looming over the dock made the blackness on the pier more intense. Osterman eased over the final rut and pulled up before the small gatehouse. He frowned at the anchor-chain gate revealed beside the small shed. The gate had been installed to prevent unauthorized access to the dock area and the untenanted gangplanks leading to the abandoned rusty decks above. The freighter had been out of commission for years, but the watchman remained, not to protect cargo, but to prevent the stripping of valuable wiring, piping, and copper tubing against the day when a proper bid was received, and the old wreck was finally dragged off to salvage.

  “Old man Halversen just didn’t come in tonight,” young Gunther said and spat into the darkness. Joe Osterman probably looked under his bed before he went to sleep each night! he thought. He sniggered. “Maybe the old man got himself a hot date in there, and don’t like to do it under lights.” He saw the look that crossed Osterman’s face and decided that discretion was the better part of humor. What the hell! A couple more years and Osterman would be sitting on his ass in some old folks’ home, and he’d be driving Patrol Car Four, if he wasn’t already plainclothes by then. “Or maybe he’s home sick.”

  “That doesn’t explain the light being out,” Osterman said.

  “Nobody around to turn it on,” Gunther said, amazed at the senility that could manufacture such a dumb question.

  “Gus would have called in if he was sick,” Osterman said. His eyes kept probing the shadows as he spoke. “The agents would have gotten somebody else out here for the night. A light that’s out is a tip-off to any crook.”

  “Hell,” Gunther said, disgusted with the whole conversation, wondering why they weren’t in some coffeepot having a cup at this hour, “maybe the bulb just burned out. They don’t last forever.”

  “And Gus is sitting there in the dark,” Osterman said dryly. He set the brakes. “I’m going to check. You stay here.”

  He picked his flashlight from its clip on the body panel alongside his left leg and climbed down from the car, automatically unbuckling his holster flap. The lock on the gate was clearly illuminated in the car’s raised headlights; Osterman walked over and examined it carefully. It was intact, undamaged, and firmly locked. Osterman frowned. Maybe Gus had missed a night and hadn’t called in; hell, everyone was allowed one miss every now and then. Still, while he was there he might as well check it out all the way. He switched on the flash and walked to the closed door of the small gatehouse, holding the beam steady on the knob. Behind him in the car, Gunther cast his eyes ceilingward in near-pity for the old man; he thought Osterman must have seen High Noon too many times. Then Gunther’s expression brightened as he studied the layout. Actually, the dock wouldn’t be a bad place to bring a dame. Some of those high school kids he caught every now and then with a stick of pot; most of them would be glad to do it rather than getting a lecture at home. And old Gus would co-operate, or else!

  Osterman was trying the handle of the gatehouse, prepared to shake it and hear it rattle; to his surprise the door swung back out of his hand and then eased closed again under gravity. Osterman paused, instantly alert, and switched the flashlight to his left hand, reaching swiftly for his gun with his right. He stood well to one side, flattened against the wall of the gatehouse, and pushed again at the unlatched door. It swung back aimlessly. Osterman angled his wrist to play the light over the interior of the room while maintaining maximum protection. Gunther, watching this odd action, shook his head. Old John Wayne the Second!

  “Hey, Joe, for Christ’s sake!”

  Osterman paid no attention. He dipped the flashlight beam and then jammed his gun back into its holster, moving quickly inside the one-room shed. A second later he appeared at the door.

  “Gunther, call an ambulance! Gus is hurt!”

  So it really had been serious. Gunther instantly became helpful, starting to open the car door.

  “Can’t we take him in ourselves—?”

  “Goddamn it! Do as you’re told! Call an ambulance!”

  “All right, all right! Keep your shirt on.”

  Gunther twisted to the car radio, reaching for the mike. Osterman went back inside the gatehouse and flipped the switches on the inner wall beside the door. The spotlight above the gatehouse sprang back to accustomed life, outlining the patrol car against the darkness beyond; light also illuminated the interior of the room as much as a sixty-watt bulb could brighten the drab area. Osterman laid his flash down and knelt beside the fallen man, feeling for a pulse in the wrist. It was there, thin and reedy, but steady. Osterman breathed a faint sigh of relief. The blood from the cut head had puddled and hardened on the worn linoleum of the floor; the lined face seemed to Osterman to be unnaturally pale. Osterman repressed the desire to hold a folded handkerchief against the wound; the bleeding had nearly stopped and he knew the risk of accidentally moving the battered head. Let the doctors handle it.

  Another thought came and he came to his feet, conscious of the stiffness of his knees. He went back to the door.

  “Gunther!”

  “I called them already, for God’s sake! You don’t have to remind me ten times!”

  “Have them send another car. We’re going to have to go through that freighter.”

  Gunther stared. “What? Why, for God’s sake? It would take fifty guys a month of Sundays—”

  “Just call for another car,” Osterman said wearily. “Don’t make me tell you twice.” He went inside to stay with the unconscious Gus until the ambulance arrived, preferring not to see the expression on Gunther’s face. He pulled a chair around and sat down, bending over the man on the floor. It was only then that he saw the baggy pants Gus habitually wore were twisted halfway around his body. Whoever had slugged Gus had removed his belt, and
the only reason Osterman could think of was they wanted the keys Gus Halversen always wore on a ring slipped over the thin leather strip that held up his trousers. Osterman started a search for the keys, never expecting to find them, and then located them in a corner of the room in plain sight. He stooped to pick them up and then turned; the fallen man had moaned. It was the first sound he had made since Osterman’s arrival. The leathery-faced officer went back and knelt by the fallen man again.

  “Gus?”

  The battered head tried to turn, to follow the sound it had heard. The seamed face winced in pain. Osterman felt remorse.

  “Take it easy, Gus,” he said. “The ambulance’ll be here in a few minutes. Just lie still and don’t move your head.”

  The eyes opened, startlingly blue and youthful in the white, lined face.

  “Two … guys …” Halversen said in a half-strangled whisper.

  “You’ll tell us all about it later, Gus. Right now take it easy.”

  But Halversen wanted to speak. “Two guys,” he whispered, and wet his lips with his tongue. Osterman wondered if he ought to bring water to the man and then decided to wait for the medics. Gus looked at him intently, the blue eyes willing Osterman to understand. “… wondered what … they … were doing … when I saw them … coming down … the road … figured they might have … been lost …”

  “Easy, Gus. Take it easy.”

  “… one guy … called out was … this … Grierson’s Dock … told him … no … guy in front … made out like … he couldn’t … hear me so … I leaned in … the car, like … and I guess the … guy in the … back seat must … ’ve sapped me …”

  Osterman frowned. If Gus insisted on talking, he might as well answer intelligent questions. The time saved might come in handy later. He leaned over the fallen man.

  “Gus, what kind of a car were they driving?”

  “… black …”

  “But what kind?”

  “… don’t know …”

  There was the faint, brief sound of a siren, instantly cut off, apparently after the nearing ambulance had passed whatever obstacle had temporarily blocked its path. At that hour of the morning no siren was generally needed; the flasher did the job and allowed the natives to get their sleep. Osterman looked up a moment at the sound and then bent down to the fallen watchman again.

  “What did they look like, Gus? The two guys?”

  “… didn’t see … their … faces …”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “… just … before … three …” The blue eyes widened momentarily. “What … time is … it … now …?”

  “Just after four,” Osterman said briefly, and looked around the small room. “They take anything?”

  “… don’t … know …”

  I’m really on the ball tonight, Osterman thought sourly. Head of the class for dumb questions. He reached to Gus’s side and eased the old man’s wallet from his rear trouser pocket. It was heavy with old photographs. Osterman counted the bills.

  “Nine bucks, Gus?”

  “… I … think …”

  Gus closed his eyes. Osterman shoved the wallet back into the old man’s pocket and came to his feet. There was sound outside the shack; the ambulance and the extra patrol car had arrived together. Two attendants came into the shack, their folded stretcher connecting them. Osterman had to get out of the small room to allow them to manipulate. A moment later the two were in the open again, carefully carrying the inert body. They slid the stretcher into the ambulance; one followed it into the back while the second took the driver’s seat. They drove off slowly, dipping as they eased the heavy vehicle over the ruts. The two uniformed policemen from the extra car had gotten down and were standing talking to Gunther. Osterman walked over.

  “Hello, Tim-Ben.”

  “Hi, Joe. What’s up?”

  “Couple of guys drove up,” Osterman said. “Asked Gus a question, when he stuck his head in the car to answer, one of them clipped him. Hit him on the back of the head with a sap or something.” Osterman wrinkled his face. “He was out over an hour, which is a lot. Just came to a little bit ago, when I was inside.”

  “Gunther told us about Gus,” Ben said. He was senior man in the car. “I mean, he was saying something about your wanting to go over the freighter.”

  “I was thinking about it, but now I don’t know,” Osterman said slowly. He shook his head. “The two guys clipped Gus; they must have had a reason. They took his keys, but it doesn’t look like they even used them. Found them in one corner.” He tapped his pocket where the keys were, as if for proof, and then reached up to scratch his grizzled head.

  “You mean they sapped him out here and then dragged him inside?” Gunther asked.

  “No,” Osterman said sarcastically. “They drove the car inside and sapped him there.” He looked his disgust with the younger officer. “Of course they sapped him out here!”

  “About the freighter,” Ben said remindingly.

  “Personally, I think the whole idea is nuts, myself,” Gunther said. “What the hell, whoever hit the old man is long gone by now. What in hell would they want to go up onto the freighter for, anyways? If someone wanted to strip any junk off that old wreck, they’d have come in a truck, not a passenger car.”

  “He’s right,” Tim said. “And they’d probably come earlier, not three in the morning. Not much time to take much before light.”

  “Any description of the guys?” Ben asked.

  “Gus didn’t see their faces,” Osterman said. “It was a black car, is all he remembers. One guy driving, another guy in back. And that’s funny, too. Why would they split up like that, just two guys in a car?”

  “Maybe one was a chauffeur,” Gunther said, but he was grinning.

  Osterman paid him no attention. “A black car …” He frowned. “They were on the lookout for a black car from that bank job up in the city yesterday, the one where that cop was killed.”

  “Good grief!” Gunther said with disgust. Now he’d heard everything from the old nut! “Only about twenty million black cars around, is all!”

  “Yeah,” Osterman admitted, and shook his head. “Still, why would anyone just up and slug an old man like Gus? They didn’t take any of his dough, and anyway, who would muscle a night watchman for his billfold? What would they expect to get, a couple bucks?”

  “Lots of guys,” Ben said with conviction.

  “I suppose so,” Osterman said in a discouraged voice. “Except they didn’t touch Gus’s dough.”

  “Maybe it was a grudge,” Gunther said, and suddenly grinned. “Hey, maybe old Gus has been bringing broads down here nights, and one of them’s old man got wise.”

  Osterman paid no attention to his partner. He turned and stared up at the huge black wall of the freighter, looming over them. “Don’t make sense,” he said, almost to himself, and sighed. “Well, still I guess we ought to let the cops up there know about it, anyway.”

  “Let them know about what!” Gunther said, exasperated with Osterman’s continued thickheadedness. “You think the guys who pulled that bank job are hanging around this neighborhood with a million bucks in their pockets, all day and all night, just so they can slug some punchy night watchman for no goddamn reason at all?”

  “They stuck around long enough to hijack that ambulance up in the San Brunos,” Osterman said evenly. “Anyway, the orders were to report anything screwy to the cops up in San Francisco, and this business with Gus is screwy enough for me.”

  Gunther snorted. He said, “Go ahead, make a horse’s ass out of yourself if you want, but leave me out of it.” He shook his head in disgust. “Old man gets sapped, right away you want to call out the army and the marines!”

  “One of these days,” Osterman said quietly, “I’m going to rap you right across the mouth to teach you some manners. Now, slide the hell away from that radio and let me call it in!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday—4:35 A.M.

 
Lieutenant James Reardon, spectacularly out of uniform, lay on his back, his folded arms under his head, staring at the barely visible ceiling of the darkened bedroom. At his side, Jan breathed evenly in sleep, one arm curled, her fingers resting lightly on his shoulder.

  Sleep for the lieutenant was impossible. The problems involved in the Wheaton case were too important, and also too damned convoluted. The thought of the work involved was frightening. If Dondero had brought back a list of forty names from the shipyard alone—and Reardon was sure Captain Tower had not been exaggerating—and if you added to these the people at the bank who knew about the payroll, which was the entire branch personnel plus God knew how many in the main office; and when you added to this army the people in the neighborhood who saw the Brink’s truck in front of the bank every week at a definite time—it came to roughly the population of Azuza. And when you considered that all the police had to go on in the way of descriptions were some voice-graphs that were half-garbled—well, only an idiot wouldn’t have been worried.

  Reardon sighed deeply. It looked like one of those miserable jobs where thousand upon thousands of department man-hours would be expended, and the case would probably end up being solved—if it was solved at all—when some joker wandered in either to confess or to squeal on a confederate because of a bum split or over a woman. First thing in the morning he would have to start winnowing that bumper crop of potential involvees, eliminating as many as possible before assigning the remainder to individual detectives, aware as he did so that the first name he struck from the list could be the one who tipped the job, the one he wanted. Christ, if only they had a starting point—

  The shrill ringing of the telephone brought him from the gloomy prison of his thoughts. He reached out quickly to still the sound by raising the receiver, glancing over anxiously toward Jan as he did so. She had half-turned, facing him, but her eyes were still closed, her breathing steady. Reardon spoke into the receiver as quietly as he could.